


of all the ways i said your name

by imgoingtocrash



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars: Rebels
Genre: 4 Times fic, Common Law Space Marriage At Its Finest, F/M, Fluff, Kitchen Make-Outs, Minor Harm to the Kids, Mission Fic, Team as Family, Undercover as a Couple, minor injury, swrebelsminibang
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-15
Updated: 2018-10-15
Packaged: 2019-08-02 16:32:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,035
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16308743
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/imgoingtocrash/pseuds/imgoingtocrash
Summary: “Nice job on the save, by the way.”“Not like you were very subtle.” Hera nudges her hip against him. He takes advantage of the movement by wrapping his arm around her shoulders.“It was your idea to have a code word for emergencies, sweetie. Can’t blame a man for using what works.”“I can when I hate it.”“You don’thateit—“4 times when Kanan calls Hera pet names/nicknames for once—for a cover, for a plan, and for real.





	of all the ways i said your name

**Author's Note:**

> I was really interested by the fact that in-series Hera casually calls Kanan dear/love, but Kanan doesn’t really have any pet names/nicknames for her. So I came up with the idea that if he ever does use them, it’s for a specific reason/a rare occurrence. These are some of those.
> 
> Title and lyrics from Bottlecaps by Inara George.
> 
> My lovely partner for this fic is [Anath_Tsurugi](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Anath_Tsurugi/pseuds/Anath_Tsurugi) (anathtsurugi on tumblr) and I will link their work here once it's posted!

* * *

 

_Of all the ways I said your name_

_A hundred times, but now it’s changed_

 

* * *

 

“Hey, _babe_. Glad you could make it.” Kanan sits up from the cracked leather booth seat with a significant amount of noise, hand already poised in the air to take her outstretched one before she’s even all the way past the entrance of the moderately busy bar. He lightly tugs her into the booth by the hand, his tall stature allowing him to stretch his arm across the half-circle booth’s side and guide her into the middle where he sits. “I saved you a seat. Right next to me, obviously.”

“Obviously,” Hera hums half-heartedly, holding her hand in his own less like she wants to tangle their fingers together and more like she’s royalty that needs to have her appendage kissed upon greeting.

He kisses their joined hands, smirking at her with an old, familiar grin that’s a potent mix of adoring and cocky before loudly proclaiming, “Let me get you a drink.”

Normally she would object to being waited on, but instead she nods, smirking and almost swatting at his backside with a dismissing flap of her hand on the way out of the booth in retaliation. She supposes it would look flirty if she did make contact, but it’s not really what she’s going for and he would probably never let her live it down if she actually did touch his backside.

She watches him walk up to the booth, looking too much like the man he was when they spoke in a very different sort of bar about very different things. There was way less touching back then. Well, on her part, at least. 

He fakes a certain swagger that she herself can only imitate if the creature watching is too distracted to look at the thinly veiled disgust on her face. She was never really made to be a spy, in that way. He looks happy. Content. Assured, mostly toward the other men and women in the bar that are not so subtly scoping her out. It speaks of a confidence that she thinks effortlessly comes off of those that are actually in relationships.

He turns to lean against the bar after he orders, casually giving her a little wave with his fingers as he also scopes out the room for their arriving contact with his moving gaze.

The drink placed in front of her is some variant on a Rylothian Yurp, only different from the real article by the color, she thinks. There’s a special liquor only produced on her home planet, hard to export long before the Clone Wars and even more difficult to acquire after. Instead most alcohol suppliers simply mix in Rorian Rum during the drink’s concoction or some other cheap liquor, making the drink more brown than pale yellow as is custom. 

She gives him a quick side-eye so that he knows exactly how not-cute she thinks he’s being with her drink choice in comparison to his more normal Corellian Ale. 

He doesn’t drink as much or as casually as he used to before they met. She doesn’t know when she’ll need both of them on point, so it’s best to never venture away from completely sober. Going to a bar and not drinking is a bit strange, however, so she watches him take a few short, controlled sips before she follows in his example.

“ _Babe_? Really?” she murmurs, turning her face closer toward his neck.

“Sorry,” he practically purrs against her ear cone. “Would you like me to call you something different? Schnookms? Wifey? Bantha-breath?” She pushes him, faking a giggle to cover up how hard she actually attempts to shove him away from her. Somehow she expected him to be in his element here, hamming up a cover that’s only really in place because she knows the cultural customs of the planet. 

Married women get treated with more respect and trust than single ones here, especially if they’re not humans. The planet has a high number of women that marry into powerful families from other planets and simply operate the local branches primarily by themselves or with trophy second-husbands or wives. Wearing a ring and making deals with a significant another patiently waiting in the wings signifies power and status more than it might other places. Since Chopper is currently the only other being on her crew, Kanan was really her only option.

She supposes she’s giving him less credit than he deserves. Honestly, he’d been wonderfully silent on the matter from the moment she brought the mission up. It was a one time cargo delivery agreement meeting hinging on the explicit condition that her husband—who she’d created a fake cover and business portfolio for her business to run under—also attend. “So my poor wife has someone to talk to while the businesswomen work,” the contact had said sympathetically, practically voicing a pout.

“My name would be just fine, I think,” Hera sighs, leaning forward onto the table and using her fist as a prop to look up at him from.

Kanan half-groans, rolling his eyes. “Isthka is just so… _wrong_. You’re, y’know. You.”

“I was under the impression that you could handle this cover. I didn’t realize you were so inexperienced with being someone’s lover.”

He shakes his head, smiling and not offended by her joke in the least, scooting closer until their thighs touch under the table. “You’re only mean because you’re jealous.” He gestures with his pointer fingers at himself, moving them up and down from his torso to his face slowly. “All of this could’ve been yours any of those nights together on Gorse.”

He’s joking, not earnestly upset or angry that she’s quietly and firmly rebuffed that possibility despite the times since then that she’s thought about— _no_. Not even really thought about with any frequency, just… _contemplated_ once or twice. Casually. Because of close proximity and a lot of lonely hours in hyperspace and how he _does_ say her name, not like anyone else—

No, this is just friendly, platonic teasing that they both know is safe because she’s assured it’s not going anywhere even if he feels differently.

She’s about to retort when she sees a figure approach out of the corner of her eye. The woman is tall with tanned, dark skin and contrasting bleached blonde hair that’s tied up in a delicate bun, the front strands elegantly framing her perfectly-done face paint. This is the client, A’na Verishna, and she looks almost royal. The dress she wears is form-fitting but professional, accented with beaded jewelry and a soft, silky fabric sheen. From her long heels to her perfectly sprayed locks, she emanates a standard of intergalactic business leadership.

On her arm is another woman who is pre-occupied with something on a tablet. Her hair is black, however, and flows in soft, bouncy curls all the way down her back. The make-up is just as expertly done, but the dress she sports is a sparkling number that attracts attention by reflecting in the bar lights.

“A’na Verishna,” The client introduces herself, extending a hand to Hera only and giving a slight nod toward Kanan before gesturing to her paramour. “This is Lexhe, my beautiful wife.”

Lexhe reddens slightly, pulling the datapad from her face and seriously taking Hera’s hand and repeating Kanan’s joking kiss of her hand from earlier with respect and sincerity. “I apologize for my rudeness Mrs. Reynard. A’na requested I make dinner plans on world at the last minute and, well,” Lexhe straightens herself, speaking to Kanan in a faux-whisper. “You know how difficult that can be, I’m sure.”

Kanan chuckles, smile going from charming to earnestly warm before taking Lexhe’s hand and then kissing A’na’s. “Do I ever! Hard to get this one to even stop for a moment to eat. She works much too hard.”

They say that the best lies hold a hint of truth, and this truth he’s stated is much less elegant than simply making fanciful dinner plans with her. Instead, she has too many bleary memories of Kanan physically throwing nutrition bars into parts of the ship she sequesters herself in, re-heating pots of improvised stews and porridges he’s concocted from even the most meager resources, and most often shoving hot tea in her hands and pretending his reason for speaking after the fact is for more than to get her to take a break.

“Isthka Reynard,” Hera states, pulling Kanan close by the waist. “and my husband, Jtan. I hope you’ll excuse our informal dress. We find it easier to transport cargo under the appearance of much less…influential individuals.”

In truth, what they’ve even attempted to put on is likely their version of elegantly dressed. Instead of her usual pilot’s attire and goggles or Kanan’s worn, dusty coat, they’re both wearing cleaned, pressed ensembles of varying browns, blacks, and greys. She tried to make it look like they were doing the rich people’s version of toning it down, going with squeaky clean boots, jackets, pants, and shirts. (No one would believe a real smuggler’s attire would be this new, and if the pay for this job were worse the credits it took to get the outfits wouldn’t have been worth it.)

“I thought as much, especially with the choice of such a… _peculiar_ venue.” A’na turns her nose up looking around at a grouping of particularly grumpy looking Daveronians, but sits across from Hera when she and Kanan slide to one side of the booth so that she can take the other. A’na shrugs. “I don’t think it will matter much just this once. On any repeat transactions, however…”

Hera nods at the woman’s raised eyebrow. “Understood. Shall we get to talking price estimates?”

A laugh bubbles up out of Lexhe, covered up by a manicured hand. She turns to her wife, leaning down from where she’s still standing and kissing her wife’s cheek primly. “Oh, sweetie, you’ll get along with Mrs. Reynard just fine. All business, no banthashit.” She turns with a teasing, shaking head to Kanan. “Join me for a drink?”

“Sure thing,” Kanan lets out a snort of breath only she can hear, kissing Hera’s hand again and patting it firmly. “Good luck, baby.” He raises his eyebrows, a silent _calling you pet names wasn’t so stupid after all, huh?_ So clearly on the tip of his tongue before he turns and runs off after Lexhe, leaving both Hera and A’na staring off in his wake.

 

* * *

 

Somehow, Kanan holds his tongue until they’re climbing up the ramp back onto the _Ghost_ with the last of A’na’s agreed upon shipment. “I kind of hate that we have to burn those aliases.”

“I don’t.” Hera strips off the pressed jacket immediately, throwing the expensive fabric across one of the crates in the cargo hold and crossing her rolled up sleeves. The material had been itching her skin throughout the meeting despite being marketed for far too much money.

“Oh, come on Hera. They were nice.”

“Yes, nice and entirely too concerned with their own problems! Half of the galaxy is starving and oppressed under the Empire’s rule and they’re profiting off of it.” She shakes her head ruefully. 

There would be no optimistic second job with those women, hopefully not even on the planet as a whole. The way they’d sneered at the kind of establishments she was used to, the kind of places that were better than the lowest of the low and a privilege to be in when looking at the rates of homelessness and poverty under Imperial rule. If they’d known who she and Kanan really were, she doubts that niceness would carry over so well.

“And we’re profiting off of them, so it all shakes out. Besides, having reliable contacts with better reputations than ‘another merry band of smugglers you can only sort of trust’ probably isn’t a bad idea.”

She sighs, only partially relenting to the second point. “I suppose. But we’re still mysteriously dropping off of the face of the galaxy when the shipment is done. I’m not going to waste my time rejecting a million holo-calls from someone’s assistant about when we can ‘do lunch’ or whatever. Rich people have too many strings attached and we don’t have enough excuses to avoid them indefinitely.”

Kanan hums quietly in response, but seems to let the topic drop, soon preoccupied with his usual position in the co-pilot’s seat watching her and Chopper get them off of the ground. He only speaks up again to inform her that he’s going to take his sleeping shift early unless she needs him for anything.

“Go with Chop to do a quick diagnostic on the _Phantom_ before you do. I felt one of the engines making a rattle on our last run that I’m worried about. If any of our funds from this job need to go to new parts I want to know about it beforehand.”

“Sure thing, babe.” At first Hera thinks he must still be joking, finally ready to bring back his look from earlier at the bar because his call in the undercover situation had been the right one.

But when she turns to look at him with a particularly unimpressed eyebrow raise, his face is colored a bit too red, matching the way his eyebrows are scrunched with his nose and mouth into a particularly pinched expression.

“I didn’t mean—“ He looks away from her, scratching his facial hair nervously when Chopper makes a sequence of binary chirps equivalent to mocking laughter, followed by a murmur and a bump of Kanan’s leg on the way toward the _Phantom_ that sounds a lot like _you’re in trouble_. “I just—I respect what you said about—it just slipped out.“

A mischievous grin makes its way up her face. She could be mad. She could take it as disrespect toward her rules and station. Instead, she decides to take in his awkward stance and clear embarrassment and thinks that maybe he could do with just a bit more. “It’s fine… _dear_.”

 

 

* * *

 

 

“Spectre One, report,” Hera’s voice calls over the comms, and Kanan honestly wants to do nothing more than reply to her.

A safety clicks off to his right, belonging to the blaster of a smuggler who’s decided they’re easy prey. 

Kanan tried to be reasonable: he played the angle of a man just doing his job, someone who didn’t know better, that wasn’t aware their simple cargo shipment was in fact crates of spice Hera had purposefully wanted off the streets. In particular, far away from their intended destination to Ryloth.

The Rodian bounty hunter was either too smart to buy the lie or simply didn’t care. He’d forced Kanan onto his knees before bringing out his own blaster and aiming those of his goons at the heads of Ezra and Sabine.

Stars-damned kids are brave. Absurdly so. As much of a Jedi as he was supposed to become at fourteen, it’s unlikely that he could have kept his calm so well under gunpoint. He’s proud of them and equally angry at the son of a bantha holding _children_ hostage.

It must show on his face—that he’s protective of them, that he loves them. They’re outnumbered, and this Rodian has already shown with a quick slap to Ezra’s head with his blaster that he’s not going to play nice.

“Spectre One, this is Spectre Two, come in,” Hera calls again, a little more urgent this time. The Rodian reaches down to where Kanan’s communicator is strapped to his belt, rolling it between his fingers with an amused chuckle.

“Looks like you weren’t lying about the boss, hm? Sounds like a tough one.”

“Kanan, love, answer me.”

The Rodian’s brows crease deeply in replacement for raising eyebrows. “Seems she’s quite soft for you though, eh?” The bounty hunter presses his blaster to Kanan’s temple roughly. “Best answer the missus as if nothing’s wrong. Else I start shooting the little ones.”

“Kanan, don’t listen to this stupid—Ugh!“ Ezra starts, dragging his feet against the dirt as he strains against the men holding his arms behind him, only no longer speaking when they shove his face against the ground.

“Call the lady, or the boy gets it first. I’m tired of his blasted mouth—tempted to tear it off.”

“Okay, okay,” Kanan relents, leaning towards the comm and looking at Ezra’s struggling form. He projects only calm into the Force, hoping to communicate to Ezra that things are far more under control than they appear. At least Sabine seems to catch on, nodding at him and allowing herself some slack in her captor’s grip.

He didn’t have an initial strategy, but the one coming to mind at the moment isn’t his worst on the fly.

“Spectre Two, this is Spectre One,” Kanan says, projecting suave and calm, his usual during some of their most glaring mission failures. “Reporting in.”

“Kanan, what took you so long? I was starting to think—“

“Dangerous.”

“Don’t be cute with me when we’ve got an important mission to finish.”

“Sorry, sweetheart, couldn’t help it,” Kanan says, not emphasizing the endearment with his tone. Like every ‘dear’ and ‘love’ she’s ever dropped, he becomes used to the feeling of the term in his speech as if it’s the everyday, even when the looks on Ezra and Sabine’s faces tell a different story that the bounty hunter isn’t paying attention to. “The kids and I are all good. The cargo is on the planned route to Bay Five. Just in need of a pick up.”

Hera doesn’t miss a beat, bless her. “Copy that, already on my way. See you soon. Stay safe.”

“I’ll do my best. Spectre One out.”

“What an adorable conversation,” the Rodian throws Kanan’s comm to the ground, stomping on it. “Shame it’ll be your last.” The bounty hunter turns to his men, making a sweeping gesture. “Load up the cargo! If a single package is unaccounted for, you’ll be out the airlock before the first hyperspace jump!”

“Can’t even trust your own guys, huh?” Sabine snarks. “Must be tough out in the galaxy for a total _sleemo_.”

“You wound me, child, truly,” the Rodian deadpans, walking lazy circles around the three of them, blaster slack in his grip. All the easier to take from him, with the right timing. “You’ve done a terrible job raising these ones. You should be thanking me for getting rid of them.”

“As you should be thanking me,” Kanan replies, a smile creeping up his cheek. Those engines are practically purring under Hera’s touch, her glow in the Force so instantly recognizable that Kanan is fine with a little gloating. “For taking this illegal spice off of your hands.”

“And how do you plan to do—“ The Rodian is interrupted by the _Ghost_ ’s guns coming down directly upon his back, making him let out a pained howl. Kanan uses the Force to bring the bounty hunter’s blaster to his hand, away from the smoking form of the man who’d had their positions reversed only moments before.

Ezra and Sabine then take their own cues in the following chaos, Ezra using his stun slingshot and Sabine unholstering her own weapons to take out the surrounding attackers. Between the fire of Hera and Zeb in the Ghost, the quick work of Ezra and Sabine, and Kanan’s own carefully placed immobilizing blaster shots, the crew makes quick work of the scene.

Hera lands the Ghost when the last hired gun is down, ushering Chopper and Zeb to quickly take back the stolen cargo. “We’ve gotta move. Imperials won’t take long to respond to sounds of gunfire near a public hangar.”

“Agreed,” Kanan replies, joining Hera in pushing the last hover cart into the _Ghost_ ’s waiting cargo bay. “Nice job on the save, by the way.”

“Not like you were very subtle.” Hera nudges her hip against him. He takes advantage of the movement by wrapping his arm around her shoulders.

“It was your idea to have a code word for emergencies, sweetie. Can’t blame a man for using what works.”

“I can when I hate it.”

“You don’t _hate_ it—“

“I have since the first time it came out of your hotshot gunslinging mouth, and I won’t pretend to forget that’s where it comes from if you keep at it.”

“See, that’s the point, sweet—“ Hera shrugs out of his arm, shoving him away by the mouth in a way that’s mostly playful, shaking her lekku back and forth in exasperation on her way to pilot them out of danger once again.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Long, easy mornings are a rarity, and that's why Hera absorbs them with a special kind of care.

The majority of the day should be spent in bed, according to Kanan, Ezra, and everyone else that isn’t like her and sleeps in when given the chance. Instead, she gets up before most of the suns that rise in the galaxy and drinks her caf in complete silence. No sputtering droid, no arguing crew members, and no rebellion files to look over. Just her and a warm cup of caf.

About halfway through her second cup, Kanan stumbles into the mess—long sleeping pants hanging lazily from his waist, hair tucked into a uncombed tail, and completely shirtless—to start making breakfast. Meaning he’s deprived himself the extra sleep to spend time alone with her, and is making a point of it by looking as tired as he still feels. (She can’t lie—she appreciates it.)

This morning in particular, he takes her mug away before she can make a sound of protest, shotguns it like liquor, and refills the mug to the brim with fresh caf before bustling around in the cabinets to see if they have real food or if he’s going to have to make do with meager rations because that’s all they can afford this month.

He seems to find something in the cooler worthy of a small, triumphant smile—eggs that aren’t powdered and some kind of preserved meat—before attending to the business of getting his own mug and serving more caf to himself.

“Can’t imagine why you’re so tired this morning, love,” Hera says knowingly, moving her mug to the counter and pushing her bottom up beside it, as she has instructed both Ezra and Sabine not to do multiple times.

He looks down at her over his cup. “You and I have very different memories of yesterday, then.”

“You could outrun stormtroopers in your sleep!”

“Force, I wish,” he huffs, looking up as if for a god’s blessing. She lightly kicks his shin from her position on the counter. “Ow!”

“Oh, you’re so dramatic.”

“And you’re a bad influence on the kids.” He points at her position on the counter. She waves it away with her hand, because she’s happy, things are light and good, and this is her ship to sit all over however she likes, as contradicting to her own orders as she likes.

He shakes a spatula at her, as if in warning, before shaking his head and heating the pan he’s placed on the stovetop with a little cooking oil.

Hera lets the playful tiff go in favor of letting the moment breathe around them. She closes her eyes, leaning her head back just enough that her lekku don’t hit the cabinet behind her. She can see Kanan moving around without looking at him, the sounds of his mutterings about what he’s doing a symphony with the crack, pop, sizzle of grease and the scrape of the spatula against the pan.

She breathes a few times, slow and purposeful. Her bare foot makes its way towards Kanan, making a few experimental taps against his leg in warning before angling her toes to pull up the fabric of the right pants leg at the bottom and quickly using the momentum to keep her foot under the briefly raised material.

He’s warm, which doesn’t really surprise her anymore, but it makes the collection of hairs on his leg raise in reaction to her colder feet. His muscle only stiffens a fraction before he relaxes, not even bothering to question what exactly she’s doing. By the smile curling up his cheek, he’s clearly not dissatisfied or uncomfortable. 

Well, not until she starts rubbing back and forth against his leg hairs experimentally. She’s always so fascinated by how much hair humans have, despite having been with Kanan for so long, of all humans. So maybe she gets a little distracted from time to time playing with his hair, petting it, teasing and touching him—until maybe she does something that bugs him more than normal because he has to reach down and scratch at his leg a few times while trying to not burn the food in front of him.

When the danger of lighting the ship and their meal on fire is out of the way, he pins her in place with his arms bracketing her legs. “You,” he says, leaning down to kiss her shoulder. “Are.” Kisses her neck. “Distracting.” Kisses her lips. “Me.”

Hera shrugs. “How do you know that’s not the point?”

“Not that I don’t welcome the thought—“ He leans back, places his hand over hers, strokes it a few times with his thumb. “But is it?”

She shrugs again, moving her hand to clear a stray strand of hair from his face before settling on his cheek. “And—“ She shakes the thought away. “I’m glad you’re okay. Sometimes I miss you. Stupid stuff like that.” The mission yesterday was a success. There were no injuries. But sometimes she remembers other missions and wonders, what if—?

“Very stupid stuff,” Kanan says, placing his hand over hers on his cheek. “Because I’m right here, alive and well, and I’m not going anywhere.”

“You don’t know—“ She brings him closer for an embrace, avoiding the sentence, the idea. “No, you’re right. I know. Thanks.”

“You’re very welcome.” He lingers in the hug for a few moments before snapping his fingers and running over to get the closest datapad from across the room. She doesn’t mention how cold it leaves her, simply loosely wraps herself around his torso when he returns. “I forgot to show you this last night.”

It’s an article from a local Imperial news holo. It’s unimpressive for that alone, but she adjusts herself so that her chin leans against his shoulder, and he brings the datapad up to her eyes to read.

**_IMPERIAL CONFLICT AGAINST REBELS CAUSES DISSENSION_ ** _— After multiple attacks on planets in both the Outer and Middle Rim Territories, rebellious scum force local citizens to abandon their posts and attack the stormtroopers protecting our city. Ways you can help stop terrorist activity and protect the Empire on Page 6._

“It’s…propaganda against rebellion. Which they wouldn’t publish a false story about unless the number of citizens on our side started to become a such a problem that they weren’t able to simply cover it up like they usually do! That mission—we inspired people to stand up after we left.”

“Exactly.” He turns in her arms, facing her again to this time be the one to initiate the hug, kissing her cheek. “Good job, hon.”

“Thank you, dear.” She kisses him instead of letting him pull away, a little high on the small victory. Because the morning is haloed in this warmth between them and for just this moment, things are good.

Kanan breaks them apart, burying himself with a chuckle into her neck.

“What?”

“Ezra,” Kanan supplies, muffling himself in her skin. “Apparently I’m projecting how… _happy_ I am through our bond. He went to the door and turned right back around. Gotta be more careful, apparently.”

“Or he opened it and saw how you’re all over me this morning and figured it out for himself.”

“ _Me_? All over _you_?”

“Would you like to _use_ the fifteen minutes we have before he checks back in to see if it’s safe, or sit here debating semantics?”

“I can do a lot in fifteen minutes…and still have a warm breakfast ready.”

“Perfect.”

 

 

* * *

 

 

The thing about Kanan is, well, sometimes Hera forgets that he’s not indestructible.

Not that she doesn’t take great care for his safety as much as everyone else’s on the crew. It’s just that lately he’s been throwing himself more headfirst into danger than in their earlier years. Quiet in-and-out ops are a rarity these days, even if their assignments are away from the entire fleet. So even after being so shaken after everything with the Inquisitor, after seeing Kanan rattled and scared about fighting another war, she’s just often so wrapped up in the million other things she needs to do that it slips her mind.

That is, until he’s right in front of her, literally not bulletproof as showcased by the gaping blaster wound in his side.

“What in the hells happened out there?” she demands of Zeb, snapping at him instead of the kids, because as rattled as she feels, they’re clearly more so.

“He pulled the whole Heroic Jedi act to draw attention away from the rest of us.” Zeb rolls his eyes, but it looks a little more forced than normal to her. “What else is new?”

“That he came back onto my ship bleeding,” she grumbles, tearing her gaze away from Kanan— _her_ Kanan, so warm under those sharp edges, her confidant through all of this, helping her shelter these children in the middle of a war she’s helping start—covered in blood to go get the medkit. They don’t even have anything more than a medkit, really, because she’d never thought they would need more, especially after officially joining the Rebellion. After Kanan had been tortured by Inquisitors, how could she be so _careless_?

Kanan is on his bunk when she returns, Ezra and Sabine silently hovering to the side of the room, watching Zeb apply pressure to the wound. “Sabine, open this for me,” she directs, throwing the bacta patch into the girl’s hands, motioning Ezra to her side. “Prop him up, that pauldron and shirt have to come off.” She wonders if it’s a little cold—more Captain than crew member and parental figure—but Ezra and Sabine are always better working instead of wringing their hands, and they seem to appreciate being involved in making Kanan better at the moment.

The pauldron is a few simple buckles—the shirt is a little more difficult to navigate, particularly the way the material is attempting to stick against the open wound. She could always cut the shirt off—not like it’ll be worth much considering the bloodied hole, after all—but she figures leaving Kanan completely shirtless will be an easier task in case he needs an IV down the road.

Kanan groans a couple of times out of discomfort as she and Ezra partially disrobe him, but he quiets down when the bacta patch is on and starting its work. She knows the pain relief won’t last long—that IV will likely be needed soon to administer pain meds.

“Zeb, can you get—“

“On it.” Zeb is already half the way out of Kanan’s door before he answers, a soldier in the past and likely aware of some field medicine—which this is so currently far away from the fleet.

“Hera, is he—“ Ezra shakes his head. “Will he be okay?”

“I’m optimistic. There was less bleeding than there would be if it was fatal, or if the shot had burned an organ. He’ll likely just need some rest and pain medication.”

“Don’t need—” Kanan groans. “Meds. I’m fine.”

“Kanan!” Ezra and Sabine both crouch next to Kanan’s bunk on their knees, relief at seeing him awake etched on their faces. He smiles at them in return, but Hera can tell amongst his genuine relief at also seeing them safe that he’s in pain.

Hera sits on the bunk itself, his legs solid where they’re touching her back. “ _Kanan_ ,“ she starts.

“Jedi can heal—“

“Very fast, yes, I’m aware. But the drugs will help you sleep long enough to actually do the healing part. At least until we get to the fleet and a real medic can look you over.”

“Hera—“

“Please, Kanan. Just…please.”

Kanan looks up at her, eyes scrunched, hand over the patch on his side, studying her and evaluating his injury for himself, she thinks. He seems to relent, then, adjusting the pillow under his head and instead focusing on the kids. “You’re both okay?” He looks to her next. “We all got away safe?”

She answers for Ezra and Sabine. “All okay except for you.”

“I’m fine.” The answer is automatic. Less selfish than the gunslinger she met who pretended to only care about himself. She wishes he was a little more selfish sometimes, in regards to things like this.

“Clearly,” Zeb grumbles, ambling back into the room with the IV stand and bag. “That massive hole in your side? Just a graze.”

“Exactly.”

“Not funny.” Hera crosses her arms. “Either of you. Now tell me what exactly happened out there.”

Zeb hands her the needle to prepare, Kanan watching her in silence instead of answering. She raises an eyebrow, pricking his skin with a little more force than needed.

“It was just…bad luck,” Kanan says, shrugging. “Sabine and Ezra were halfway onto the ship. All I did was have their backs.”

“By literally catching a blaster bolt instead of reflecting it with your stupid Jedi light sword!” Zeb adds, clearly as mad as her that Kanan came back onto the ship bleeding.

“I didn’t have the time.”

“I’m sorry.” Ezra looks to Kanan, then the mattress, shaking his head back and forth. “I should have been watching Sabine, I should have—“

“No, it’s my fault, Kanan, I didn’t—“ Sabine insists.

“No.” Hera puts a hand on Ezra’s head, silencing him, before moving along to Sabine’s shoulder. “Kanan did what I have always asked him to do: protect this crew. It’s no one’s fault. Things happen in the field that we can’t control. I don’t like him getting hurt any more than you both, but…he came home safe, and you two are safe as well. That’s all I can ask for.”

“Sorry to make you worry,” Kanan says, lazily curling himself closer against where her body sits on the bunk. “All ‘f you.” The last part is muffled, Kanan’s head slowly lolling deeper against his pillow.

“Just glad you’re home, love.” She pets his hair a few times, a gentle and maybe more public gesture than she usually allows herself, but comforting and familiar. “We’ll take shifts if you need anything.”

“Thank you, love,” Kanan says, words stumbling together despite coming out slowly, as if he’s struggling to put things together due to the drugs. “Love you.”

There’s a beat of silence. Hera knows what he’s said. Knows it isn’t the first time he’s said it to her, even if the nickname is usually from her, it’s just—

“Hera, did he just—mmph!” Ezra starts, but Sabine jerks him back by his collar, a knowing smile of someone wise enough to not comment on what Kanan clearly _did_ just say in front of the entire crew.

“We’ll let you take first watch,” Sabine adds, dragging a complaining Ezra behind her while Chopper chortles outside in the hall. She’s glad for their antics, in a way. It’s easier to handle sometimes than these harder, more serious moments.

Zeb nods at her, almost knowingly, before the door shuts behind him. 

She suspects he’ll later find that she hasn’t gone to her own bunk and will have instead taken over someone else’s ‘shift’ to sleep tucked into Kanan’s chest, secure in the sound of his heart beating.

And if he does see that, well, he won’t say anything to Ezra and Sabine about it…even if everyone including the two of them knows exactly what’s going on between Hera and Kanan by now.

 

* * *

 

_But hell, you don't know what I'm saying_

_Oh but can't you tell_

_I love you_

 

* * *

 

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for reading this fic!! It was sort of supposed to be a 5+1 thing, but ended up more as just 4 interconnected ficlets with the same theme of Kanan calling Hera nicknames.
> 
> Notes for each section are below, for the curious.
> 
> 1: This first bit takes place a few years after A New Dawn/Gorse.
> 
> The drink names and the descriptions of Corellian Ale and Rorian Rum are from [this post](http://imgoingtocrash.tumblr.com/post/160681701669/star-wars-drinks-list), while the description of Rylothian Yurp is just a guess I made up from the bare description.
> 
> The wives having more respect aspect of this story is actually inspired by history. Many women in the 1600s—specifically from Southeast Asia—were married to European men from the trading companies and had a decently large part in taking over the local side of their new step-family’s business and trade.
> 
> 2: This takes place some time in Season 1.
> 
> This second one, as mentioned in the end, is a bit of a call back. In A New Dawn, Kanan calls Hera sweetheart a couple of times casually (and a little condescendingly) before they really get to know each other.
> 
> 3: Takes place some time in Season 2.
> 
> I really love the idea of “the kids sit on the counter and Hera hates it” and I’ve written about it before…but this time Hera gets to do it, because come on, folks, kitchen make outs!
> 
> 4: Takes place some time towards the end of Season 2.
> 
> I didn’t realize the theme of “Kanan gets hurt protecting his family” was gonna be in this last part until it was…and then I started thinking about Season 4 in relation to that, and thanks self, I hate it. Oh well, who needs to face canon when I can write a million fics where everyone lives and is family!
> 
> Thank you so much again to swrebelsminibang for hosting this fantastic experience! I can’t wait to read and comment on everyone else’s work.
> 
> As always, all comments, kudos, bookmarks, etc. are greatly appreciated! Find me on tumblr at imgoingtocrash as well if you ever wanna talk about this fic or anything else Star Wars in general.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [[Podfic] of all the ways i said your name](https://archiveofourown.org/works/16501457) by [Anath_Tsurugi](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Anath_Tsurugi/pseuds/Anath_Tsurugi)




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